


a boy walks home alone at night

by acesam



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: LTROI AU, M/M, and the reason why i shouldn't write stuff at 1 am, child abuse tw, homophobia tw, i'm using the term 'horror' lightly tho, idek, mickey's 14 and ian's 13 ish, this is a horror AU, this is pretty weird ok, violence tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:26:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4441184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acesam/pseuds/acesam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy's face changes in an instant, almost like he just remembered something, and he backs off a little. [..] “Just so you know, we can't be friends.”<br/>He frowns, confused. “Wait, why?”<br/>The boy's still staring at him, but he's slowly moving backwards, away from the dugouts. A trail of footprints in the snow. “Does … Does there have to be a reason? That's just the way it is.” [..]<br/>Mickey stares, and then screams after him: “Who says I want to be friends with your weird ass anyway?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	a boy walks home alone at night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abxl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abxl/gifts).



> I have to say, this is all Abel's fault. We were talking about IxM AU's and somehow, this happened. Because we're both trash.  
> This is an AU based on the swedish movie/book Let The Right One in, and if you haven't watched it yet I strongly advice you do. (There's also an american remake, but don't watch that, it's shitty)  
> I feel like this is an early Halloween gift to my friend. So, dedicated to you, Abel, you awful person you.  
> (Also, if you're into horror movies, the title of this work is in response to the Iranian vampire movie 'A girl walks home alone at night', which is kinda sorta the almost exact same premise of LTROI.)

For years now, he likes to think of the dugouts as 'his' spot.

After all, Mickey was only in Little Ligue for maybe a month before he got kicked out for pissing on first base, and that shit's so long ago, he hardly remembers it. After that incident he's been banned from the place, rumors of 'that Milkovich boy' even succeeding to travel to his teachers. He knows why people think he did it. All Milkoviches are good for after all is to destroy stuff.

To be truthful, he did it because he was angry. He was angry at the coach for yelling at him, at the others boys for being so excited to win, at the crowd filled with happy families. He was angry that, even though he wasn't the worst in his team, no one ever clapped for him. He was angry that these people could just go to games without thinking about where they next meal would come from. His mom dead, dad in prison. Most of the time he couldn't even go to practice because he had to take care of Mandy. He's not sure what made him piss on first base, but at least it was true to his family, to who he is. Milkovich trash.

He's not really sentimental about stuff, and it's not like the shitty dugouts are _nice_ to look at, with all the dirt and cigarette butts and the air stinking like sweat after a game. But maybe that's why he likes it so much. A dirty place for a dirty boy.

Another thing he likes about it is that no one's ever there (Dad's never there). Living where he does, finding some peace and quiet is almost impossible. There's always something, and most of the time it's his dad. Even at night, lying on his shitty mattress in his shitty room, feeling the holes in the fabric and staring at the cracks in the wall, he can hear gun shots outside. People yelling. (Dad yelling.)

Here, though. Here, it's always quiet. It's almost creepy how peaceful he feels here, in the middle of beer cans and dirt. (He always feels safest when he's covered in dirt, when the mud tracks on his face are screaming _don't fucking touch me)_ It's his paradise.

Which is why, after a particular brutal encounter with his dad that leaves him feeling angry and scared all at once, he makes his way towards the dugouts. It normally takes him only 10 minutes to walk there, but today he needs to stop every few steps to heave out air. He feels dizzy, like he needs to throw up but nothing comes. It's not that bad though, it was only a few kicks in the stomach and a punch in the face, nothing's broken. It's all fine.

The cold air forces its way into his lungs and it feels like getting a knife shoved in there. It's icy outside, there's a thick wall of snow on top of Chicago, like it always is during this time of the year. His knees feel weak, hand-me-downs and a shitty jacket barely helping against the cold, but at least it's better than inside, with his dad. The cold's a welcome distraction.

When he does finally make it to the dugouts, he quickly makes his way towards his favorite spot. A while ago, Mickey had the dumb idea to drag one of his brother's shooting practice dummies there. Was a bitch to steal unnoticed, but it's worth it for stuff like this.

He fishes out the hunting knife he stole a month ago from his pocket and lets it rest in his hand for a while. It feels heavy, not as heavy as a gun, but just as deadly if you know where to hit. He loves the rush of power he feels entering his body every time he does this, like he's unstoppable. His worth the weight of a hunting knife. He guesses that's why his dad likes hitting people so much.

“The fuck you looking at?” he sneers, looking at the dummy. It doesn't even have a face but right now, all Mickey can see is his dad staring back at him. “You goddamn shitstain,” his face scrunches up in a grimace, just like his dad's face looked like an hour ago, “you fucked up the deal again, didn't you? I fucking told you to stay in the car, yet your faggy ass decided to disobey me. And here we are.” The knife pierces the doll, right where the heart should be. “Faggot.” Again, with more force. “AIDS-monkey.” He can feel hot tears running down his cheeks but he doesn't wipe them away. He stabs the dummy again, this time in the throat, imagining feeling warm blood drip down his hands. “Should've fucking drowned you right after you were born, you fuck-”

“What are you doing?”

He almost jumps out of his own skin with how surprised he is. Mickey normally notices when people are sneaking up on him, but he didn't even notice this intruder. There's a boy, standing on one of the banks and looking down at him like he didn't just try to stab a plastic dummy to death. The boy's hair is red, kind of orange-y, and his face is even paler than Mickey's, making the freckles he has stand even more out than they already do. He's wearing what looks like an old pajama, completely barefoot. He looks like a fucking extra in a Christmas movie.

Mickey angrily swipes the tears off his face, feeling alarmed and embarrassed all at once. “Fuck you want?” he says, with as much venom in his voice as possible. He's feeling shitty enough as it is, he doesn't need an audience.

Instead of answering his question, the boy just glides off the bank and lands on the ground. Still staring at Mickey, like a cat staring at a mouse. It makes his skin crawl, makes him tighten his hold on the knife. This kid looks like he's maybe a year or two younger than him, and yet. “I live here,” he says, almost amused.

“Where?”

“Here.” The boy smiles, but he doesn't explain further, just keeps staring at him like a weirdo.

He's a little intrigued about this whole thing, even if the boy  _is_ annoying as fuck (but the fact that he didn't realize who Mickey is and run away yet speaks volumes) and apparently is worse at human interaction than he is, so he asks: “What's you name then?”

The boy's face changes in an instant, almost like he just remembered something, and he backs off a little. It almost looks like he's afraid, which at least makes Mickey feel good about this. “Just so you know, we can't be friends.”

He frowns, confused. “Wait, why?”

The boy's still staring at him, but he's slowly moving backwards, away from the dugouts. A trail of footprints in the snow. “Does … Does there have to be a reason? That's just the way it is.” He leaves with that, gone almost as quick as he was there, leaving Mickey confused and, to be honest, a little pissed off.

Mickey stares, and then screams after him: “Who says I want to be friends with your weird ass anyway?”

 

–

 

He doesn't stay at the dugouts that night, too freaked out about the boy he now conveniently calls Weirdo in his head. His dad's not there once he's back, most likely passed out in an alley somewhere, or maybe lying in some prostitute's bed. Like he gives a fuck.

As soon as he's stepped inside their shitty residence, though, he gets a handful of his little sister, Mandy, who grabs him and roughly shakes him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she screams, halfheartedly punching him on the shoulder and making him flinch.

“Jesus, what?!” he growls, already so done with everything.

“Do you think it's funny to give me a heart attack, asshole?? I was worried sick!” Ever since their mom died, Mandy's no longer the innocent girl she's been, worshiping her older brother and being like a vice around his neck. She started growing up and kind of adopted the role of mom in their household now, which is annoying as fuck.

“Fuck off, I was out.”

“Yeah, you were _out_ ,” she says, punching him again, just because she can. “Great fucking idea wandering the streets at fucking ass o'clock when there's a goddamn psycho killer walking loose!?”

“Fuck you talking about?” Mickey remembers Iggy saying something about murders yesterday, but that was while they were both high as fuck (Iggy brought home some real hardcore stuff, wanting to 'try it' before he sold it) so he didn't exactly pay attention.

“Some poor boy got killed, like, 2 blocks away. He was in my freaking English class. Found him hanging upside down in an alley, with his throat slit and everything.” Mandy lets go of him, furiously rubbing her face and sighing in that 'I'm so fucking done with you' way she does so well. “And you were _out._ Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

It's no secret that Mandy and Mickey are the tightest out of the Milkovich bunch. They even look the same, like a weird case of twins, even if Mickey's a year older than her. He's always had to look after her, and vice versa. Earliest memory is him changing her bedsheets because she'd peed her bed.

Sometimes, he feels like his sister is the only person he even cares about, and also the only person to care about him. So, it's nice that she cares, that she worries instead of just saying “Fuck it”. In a household like theirs, it's every person for themselves.

But right now, her nagging just feels like the final nail in the coffin that is this day. So, instead of apologizing and reassuring her that he's fine like a normal human being would, he just flips her off and tells her to get off his back.

 

–

 

He spends the next day analyzing his talk with Weirdo. He's not sure why, and he blames it on being bored and not having anything to do. He needs to figure out why that kid could so easily sneak up on him when he's been trained particularly his whole life how to spot that shit.

Mickey thinks a lot about that boy. About his freckles, the way there seems to have been no space of skin left on his face where there wasn't one, about his orange hair. He looked like an alien. And if he's honest with himself, maybe a little cute, too. In a weird way.

Mickey's known he was gay since he was 12, so 2 years ago. He remembers his brothers forcing him to watch porn with him, remembers being fairly uninterested in the girl and staring at the guy for far too long to be normal. He's even had sex with one of his brother's friends once, a few months ago. Wasn't exactly amazing, they were both horny, scared teenagers, so it was over as quick as it began. But even before that, he knew. He doesn't like to think about it much, though. Likes to just stomp on the weird feeling he gets every time he sees a cute boy at school, lock it far, far away. Not in this house, this neighborhood.

He's never been stupid at math, and gay boy plus south side equals dead boy.

 

–

 

That night, Mickey waits until his sister's asleep to grab his coat and sneak out of the house. He makes a mental note to himself not to be home too late, just so Mandy won't have to worry if she ever wakes up (like she tends to do) and he isn't there. He hates it when she worries, he can take care of himself. Has been doing exactly that since he was born. And besides, he doubts that a killer is stupid enough to attack a Milkovich. He still has his knife with him, just in case, though.

Weirdo's not there when he makes his way towards the dugouts, and he pretends not to feel that pang of disappointment. He's not even sure why he wanted to come here again in the first place. At the up chance of meeting that boy again? And why? It was pretty clear he didn't want anything to do with Mickey.

Nonetheless, he sits down in one of the banks, not too far from where his dummy is stacked away, and draws his knees up to his chest to keep himself warm. While going there Mickey made sure to bring his Rubrik's Cube with him, if he got bored. His family's too poor to have fancy toys like the kids in the north side, but they're not poor enough to afford that. The Cube was Mandy's Birthday present to him last year, and she swore she didn't steal it, which he thought was dumb, but still. It's nice. He normally never gets presents, and he's man enough to admit that he got addicted to playing it after like, a month. He stopped after awhile, though, getting frustrated with the fact that he never seemed to crack it. Best he's ever done is one site. He's not sure why he's starting to again, but the Cube's a familiar weight in his hands.

Mickey's completely engrossed in it, but he can still feel a weight sitting itself next to him without looking up. He didn't hear him though, which is still creepy as hell.

“You're back,” Weirdo says, in the same tone he did yesterday, like Mickey was a puzzle he couldn't figure out yet.

Mickey doesn't move an inch, biting his lower lip to keep from grinning too wide. “ _You're_ back,” he counters, throwing his words back at him.

Weirdo shifts. “I told you we couldn't be friends.”

Mickey huffs, glancing sideways a little. He's still not wearing any shoes, his toes pink from the cold. He shivers just looking at it. “Fuck off, then. I was here first.” Mickey 1, Weirdo 0.

They're silent after that, Mickey still playing with his Rubrik's Cube, just now starting to get the hang of it. From this position he can smell him a little, even if it's creepy, but it's hard not to. Kid stinks like he hasn't showered in months, and while Mickey's not really any better (they hardly have the money to keep the heating on nowadays, let alone pay the water bill), it still smells disgusting. He stops playing. “Dude, you stink,” he says, finally turning and looking Weirdo in the eyes. They're this weird mixture of blue and green and he finds himself not able to look away, so as defense he raises his eyebrows, waiting for a response.

The boy ignores his impressive eyebrows entirely. “What's that?” he asks, leaning down a little to get a better look at the Cube.

Mickey sighs, yet still holds it up in the air so he can see. “It's a Rubrik's Cube.”

“Is it a puzzle?” He says it in this weirdly interested tone, like he's never seen a goddamn Rubrik's Cube before and isn't just trying to annoy Mickey.

Mickey's eyebrows go up to his hairline, because what the fuck? “Are you for real right now? You seriously don't know what a Rubrik's Cube is?” No answer. The boy almost looks a little sheepish, glancing down at his feet. Mickey sighs and shuffles closer to the boy. “Oh, for fuck's sake. Look, one site needs to have the same color. Like this one,” he points to his already finished one, “and then the other sites, too. You wanna try?” He's not exactly sure what he's doing, talking to this boy he met yesterday, willingly giving him his stuff. If some other person had asked if they could try, Mickey would've punched them in the face. Yet here he is.

The boy seems to consider for a moment before he reaches out and takes it from Mickey's hand. Their fingers brush, and if this were one of the cheesy chick flicks Mandy likes to watch Mickey would've gotten goosebumps from the contact. But that's totally not what happened, nope. It's just that, well, Weirdo's hands are really cold. That's all.

He watches him for a moment, from up close he can almost see every freckle on his face, or the pieces of snow that are hanging in his greasy hair. It's … weird. (He's still wearing the pajamas from yesterday, Mickey's starting to think this kid just doesn't give a fuck)

“Do you … want to borrow it maybe?” he hesitantly suggests. That's also a first. “I mean, only until tomorrow. Then I want it back.” And fuck his voice for sounding so unsure of himself.

“Hmmm, I might not be here tomorrow,” Weirdo says, in a defensive tone, glancing sideways and away from him.

“Then two days, but that's it. And if you don't give it back, I will fuck you up,” he threatens, just because he's a Milkovich and he's supposed to do that, he's not supposed to befriend weird gingers he met in the middle of the night. He even shows him his knuckle tattoos (getting them done last year hurt like a bitch) as proof.

All the boy does is smile. “I'm not scared of you.”

“Never heard of the name Milkovich?”

“Am I supposed to?” he counters, smile turning into a small grin. Like that, he almost looks his age, not like a weird 40 years old stalker trapped in a boy's body. This kid's got guts, at least, he has to give him that.

“Mickey Milkovich, remember that name if you don't want trouble.”

The boy nods. “Okay.” He's playing with the Cube in his hands, probably deciding if he should give out his name, too. Would be nice if he did, even if it's just so Mickey knows which house to rob if he doesn't get his Cube back. He doesn't give a shit otherwise. (He kind of does) “Ian.”

Mickey grins, hopping off the bank in one swift motion. He can't even feel his legs anymore because of the cold, no idea how Ian does it. If he's gonna be here any longer he's gonna catch a cold for sure, time to go home. “Kay, Weirdo. See you in two days.” He flips him off as he goes.

 

–

 

“Hey, did you see the new neighbors yet?” Mandy's particularly in a good mood today, and Mickey kinda has the suspicion it's because of a boy, because it's always because of a boy. But he's not gonna ask, he doesn't exactly care in which pants his sister wants to get in this time.

“The new what?” he asks, just to annoy her. She smacks him upside the head.

“The new neighbors, dumbass. They just moved in next door. Some old guy and his son, I think.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because,” she says, trying to punch him again but he's quick enough to dodge it, “no one's seen them since they moved in. It's weird. And look at their windows, they taped them shut, isn't that crazy?”

“How about you mind your own damn business?”

Mandy's considerably quieter, finally aware that they're not the only ones home, when she murmurs: “Dad thinks they're the Feds.”

He laughs, because  _of fucking course_ Dad thinks they're after him. Self obsession and paranoia don't mix well together, he guesses. “If they were, he would've been behind bars by now. Don't worry 'bout it, worst thing they could be is some dude with a foot fetish or somethin'.”

 

–

 

After his talk with Mandy, he's itching for a smoke and some fresh air. But because he doesn't want his nuts to freeze off, he decides to just stick to smoking on the door steps. It's relatively quiet outside, even his dad's off on a bender somewhere. He treasures these moments, because they're relatively few in a life as shitty as his.

He's absentmindedly puffing on his cigarette, not really looking at anything. All he can think about is Ian. It's stupid how happy knowing his name makes him, and he doesn't even know if it's his real name or not. After all, Ian's only, like, 3 letters. Pretty sure there are plenty of Ian's in Chicago. If he were to look for him right now, would he even find him?

But still, even just imagining Ian somewhere, playing with his Rubrik's Cube, gives him this warm fluttery feeling in his stomach and he seriously wants to puke. He clenches the feeling down, pretends not to notice.  _Such a fucking pussy._

Part of him feels guilty for even thinking about this in his dad's house. _No son of mine is gonna be a goddamn fag._

Out of the corner of his eyes he spots someone, the new neighbor probably. He's standing outside his door, staring directly at Mickey with an unreadable expression on his face. The more time passes the more uncomfortable he gets, trying to ignore the creep while still enjoying his cigarette.

Think he might be about 40, Indian, and he's wearing the ugliest fucking sweater Mickey has ever seen. The dude definitely looks like a creep with a foot fetish.

“The fuck you lookin' at?” Mickey snaps after the staring gets too much, and really he just wants to be left alone. Can't he smoke a goddamn cigarette on his own goddamn porch in peace?

Creepy Neighbor still hasn't moved an inch, and now he's looking him up like he's meat, seizing him up, like Mickey does before a fight. It's making his skin crawl, so naturally he just has to run his mouth. “Hey motherfucker, you want a fucking autograph or somethin'?”

All the dude does is smirk, which pisses Mickey even more off but is also kinda terrifying. Normally people run for the hills if he so much as glances at them the wrong way. After a while of them staring at each other, creepy dude finally goes back inside. Mickey can still feel himself getting watched. He's not sure what this guy's fucking problem is, but he's pretty sure it's nothing good.

The TV's on once he goes back inside, it's one of those fancy news channels Mandy likes to watch. It's on mute, but Mickey can still read the headline. Another kid got killed, in the North side this time. Hung upside down, bled out. Figures that that kinda fucked up shit happens to rich people, too.

 

–

 

That night, he falls asleep with his ear pressed to the wall. Creepy Neighbor has been fighting with someone, their voices changing from calm, inaudible to the screaming match they've got going now. He's normally not the stalker type, but he wants to know what his neighbor's deal is, if not to protect himself then to protect Mandy. He doesn't want her to attract some pedophile's attention.

If he concentrates hard enough he can almost make out some words. Stuff like “Forgive me” and “You failed” and “Do I really have to do this myself then?”

 

–

 

Two nights after, Mickey decides to go back to the dugouts again. He's not sure why, he'd most likely blame it on the fact that he really wants to know if Ian got the hang of the Cube or not, but really? He feels lonely.

Dad came back today, from his week long bender that probably resulted in him losing all of their savings (He's not sure how they're supposed to pay the heating bill now). He's totally not sure _why_ his dad was angry exactly, all he remembers are the punches to the stomach and the bottle that hit him on the forehead. Mickey's lucky, any inches lower and he'd be blinded forever, at least that's what Mandy said when she patched him up. Lucky. Doesn't feel like luck to him.

He's so goddamn tired of walking around eggshells, and in the end even that doesn't matter. He's tired of having to explain bruises away, he's tired of his sister having to stitch him up in their shitty bathroom, tired of everyone always assuming he got them from a fight. Because shit's apparently always his fault.

Once he steps foot into the dugouts he's already got quite a broody attitude, and all he wants is to be left alone. And a smoke, maybe.

Ian's no where to be seen, but there's the Rubrik's Cube, right at the spot where Mickey was sitting the last time they've talked. Seems like it's been there for a while, it's heavily covered in snow. All the sites are finished, not even one site is left to solve. Mickey can't help but smile.

 


End file.
